


yours, and I will tell you mine

by dee_lirious



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (As domestic as you can get while being a nomad and his bard anyway), Allusions to Depressive Behaviors/Thoughts, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, References to Depression, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dee_lirious/pseuds/dee_lirious
Summary: There are mornings when Geralt doesn’t get up right away.AKA,When both of your love languages is Acts of Service.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 153
Kudos: 1103





	yours, and I will tell you mine

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory mary oliver title, hey-oh!

There are mornings when Geralt doesn’t get up right away.

He’ll think, _I’ll get up now,_ and then linger on some lumpy, unevenly filled inn’s mattress while the minutes tick by. 

It doesn’t happen often, because he has careful routines and obligations, unwritten lists that force him standing. He has to get up, to get dressed, to check over his armor, to sharpen his swords, to look after Roach, to find or finish a job, to retrieve his coin, to procure food and oats, to gather ingredients, to brew his potions, to find a place to sleep, to do it all over again tomorrow.

Underlying Geralt's tasks and responsibilities is the fear that he _could_ just lay down—in a borrowed bed, or his bedroll, or simply the dirt of the earth—and he wouldn’t get up again. The fear that he’d prefer that, actually. No one would bother him, and no one would wonder after him, and he could let his mind fall peacefully quiet, maybe forever. 

He doesn’t, though. Obviously. 

—

He’s having a bad morning, after a hellish hunt after a nest of bruxae that kept the adrenaline and Cat both racing through his veins until nearly dawn. He manages a rough, light sleep for a few hours, but then he just...lays there on his stomach, eyes closed, thinking idly about the repairs to his armor to be made, and the fact that he’s running low on potions in an area where it’ll be difficult to find several of the herbs he’ll need. It’s _almost_ enough to force him up when he remembers that he’d done a poor job of settling Roach in the stables last night, and that she’ll need a proper brushing today. 

Geralt is imagining all the steps he needs to take: sit up, clean up the lingering blood and ichor from his face and arms, find a clean shirt, put on his boots, and on and on until he can get out the door. He’s picturing stepping into the stables, and petting Roach’s soft nose in apology, when someone gives the door a perfunctory, soft knock before it opens.

“Geralt? Are you awake?” 

It’s Jaskier, obviously, and Geralt forces his shoulders to unwind. “Hm,” he grunts in reply, and forces his eyes open a crack.

Jaskier closes the door behind him with his foot, balancing a tray with several crude-looking hand-carved bowls and a stack of misshapen bread loaves on it. He’s got one of Geralt’s bags slung across his chest—the one that carries most of his potions, which is mildly worrying.

He also starts talking immediately, of course. “I brought breakfast—or rather, lunch, I suppose, since it’s nearly midday. The cook’s quite lovely, Hanna’s her name. Bread’s a bit doughy, but she makes a mean venison stew.”

Jaskier sets the heavy tray on the small table, followed by Geralt’s potions bag, which he opens and starts rummaging through, pulling out glass vials and little cloth-wrapped bundles of wild herbs.

“I found honeysuckle and verbena growing in the field just outside town, but I had a hard time tracking down any fresh hellebore. I went to talk to the local alchemist—an absolute prick, he tried to sell me some knock-off weeds, if you can believe it! Made me wish I’d brought along your sword as back-up. Oh, I looked in on Roach, tipped the stablehand to give her a brush down before we leave.”

Jaskier fishes out a larger bundle—looks like a dark grey linen parcel, which he unfolds to reveal as a plain but sturdy-looking tunic. It’s stiff enough to be virgin fabric, not yet worn in. It’s got a row of little buttons at the neck, just off-center enough to be a little fashionable, without being gaudy or attention-catching, and some subtle embroidery at the cuffs in matching thread.

“Geralt, look, I got a bargain from the tailor—he said it’s out of season. You can now have three whole black shirts; a wardrobe fit for a king!” Jaskier explains, proudly flapping the tunic’s sleeves in Geralt’s direction. 

Geralt’s closed his eyes again, and thinks he should say something. A normal person would have some kind of reaction, now. He’s just—overwhelmed, a bit.

“...Geralt, are you alright? Your wounds look closed, are they still hurting?”

One thing at a time. 

“You brought food,” Geralt says, blinking slowly and allowing his pupils to adjust to the light coming in through the thin curtain. It really is noontime, which is much later than he’d meant to lie in.

“Yeah, it’s just some bread and leftover stew from last night. Do you want something else? I think the cook might be making a proper meat pie for lunch, I could go and wheedle a portion for you.”

“And you got—potions. Ingredients?”

Jaskier glances over at the small pile on the table, and shrugs, “Yes? Not all the ones you need, I think, but you said yesterday you wanted more verbena as soon as possible. I’m still thinking of going back to give that two-bit alchemist a proper shakedown, you know. The nerve of him.”

“Roach,” Geralt interrupts.

“Roach is _fine_ , the boy in the stables has no doubt given her a dozen apples by now,” Jaskier snaps, impatient. “Geralt, seriously, are you alright? You didn’t seem grumpier than usual when you got back last night, but you must tell me if you’ve been—you know, poisoned, or cursed or something; honestly, use your words—“

“Not poisoned,” Geralt grunts. “Or cursed.”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment, then softens. “Just tired, then.” Geralt manages to rumble a sound in assent. 

The immediate understanding on Jaskier’s face is a bit too much to look at, so Geralt forces himself to sit upright as a distraction.

Jaskier hands him the new shirt, and retrieves his pants from where they’re folded over the back of a chair. Geralt remembers dropping them on the floor last night, and, upon closer inspection, notices that they’ve been washed and dried recently, smelling of the lightly-scented soap Jaskier favors for laundry. 

For some reason, that’s the thing that overwhelms him—the neatly folded pants; the idea of Jaskier picking them off the ground at dawn, going downstairs to ask after a clean tub of water and washing them, probably in the hallway so as to not disturb Geralt’s tenuous sleep. 

His ridiculous man knows him _so well_. It’s as terrifying a thought as it is precious. Geralt is afraid to examine it too closely. 

“Thank you, Jaskier,” Geralt manages to say. Hopes that Jaskier understands that he means it for more than passing him his clothing. Simultaneously hopes Jaskier doesn’t acknowledge it at all.

Jaskier quirks that lopsided smile at him, guileless but warm, his blue eyes impossibly clear.

“You’re welcome, Geralt.”

Geralt could leave it there. Should leave it there, and _would_ , ordinarily. There’s nothing extraordinary about this morning—indeed, Geralt realizes, Jaskier has done all of these little things and more, regularly and without comment from either of them, for years. 

“You should drink some water,” Jaskier is saying. He’s turned back to the table to give Geralt some modicum of privacy to get dressed. He pulls out Geralt’s mortar and pestle from his bag, and carefully pours a small palmful of verbena petals into it.

Geralt swallows around some uncomfortable emotion—not dissimilar to being swept off his balance during a fight, the split-second before he reorients his vision. Softer, but no less urgent.

“Jaskier, stop,” he says, trying to grasp onto the feeling.

It clearly comes out sharper than he’d intended, because Jaskier flinches a bit, and drops the mortar. “I can do it!” he snaps back, defensive. “I watched you last time!”

“No, that’s not—” Geralt rubs a hand over his sleep-crusted eyes. He carefully sets his clothing aside as Jaskier moves closer, hovering at the side of the bed.

He’s not in the habit of introspection, at least not in the way Jaskier does it: putting flowery words to his every thought and experience. It’s always seemed exhausting, frankly, and Geralt is woefully under-equipped to match him. 

But he can, and should, try.

“You need to tell me if something’s wrong,” Jaskier is saying. He’s fiddling with his hands a little, as if he wants to reach out but is restraining himself. Geralt, still sitting on the edge of the bed, has to tip his head back to look at him, and the difference in height; the vulnerable position it puts him in; his exposed neck—it doesn’t feel like a weakness, like he’d expect.

The center of Jaskier’s brow is furrowed a bit, and eyes are so, so clear. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Geralt manages, finally, and it’s not hard at all to let himself smile a little as he cards a hand through his tangled bedhead. Especially when the motion causes Jaskier to visibly relax. 

“You’re being peculiar this morning,” Jaskier says, sounding simultaneously fond and accusing. He’s still observing Geralt curiously. “I thought you’d be in a poor mood, considering you’re still covered in vampire blood. Should’ve known you’d find it refreshing and not at all macabre.”

“I was. In a poor mood, I mean.” Jaskier stills at the admission, genuinely surprised, and Geralt pushes past the reflex to look away, to deflect, to change the subject. “Didn’t want to get up and deal with all the—” 

He gestures vaguely at the rest of the room: the food and potions on the table; their neatly packed bags; his armor and boots piled in the corner, looking as if they, too, have been cleaned. The large and small chores which he’d been dreading, and which Jaskier has already done. 

Jaskier, who looks a bit uncomfortable himself, now. “It, I just—It’s not a big deal,” he sputters, starting to look attractively flustered. “You were out all night being bitten by sexy lady monsters!”

“I suppose I should be glad you still haven’t seen a bruxa close up,” Geralt deadpans, which earns him an indignant glare.

“No thanks to you! You wouldn’t know a descriptive word if it kicked you in the face! All you’ve said is they look like women but they’re actually big, mad bats—and I dare you to write a song out of _that_ ,” Jaskier puffs, and throws his arms wide, “And! Don’t think I did all your errands like I’m your steward, or whatever—”

“No, I wouldn’t— _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt interrupts, and carefully grips both of Jaskier’s flailing forearms and lowers them. “Calm down. I’m not...accusing you, or whatever it is you think I’m doing.”

Jaskier’s gone still again, and chews on his bottom lips for a moment, which Geralt valiantly does not get distracted by. “I… I don’t do your chores because I feel obligated to,” he finally says, firmly. 

Geralt, who had never considered the idea, is nonetheless relieved to hear it. “That’s good, I wouldn’t want you to. You’re _not_ my steward.” Even if he could afford it, the idea of a witcher with a travelling butler is extremely ludicrous. “Though I _am_ grateful.”

Jaskier’s still frowning, though, and doesn’t look any less agitated. Geralt sighs. “Why are you upset?”

“I think… Geralt, I think you’re trying to _thank_ me for being _kind_ to you,” Jaskier says, reprovingly.

Geralt finds his offended huff endearing, which: _oh._ He’s helpless against the smile on his face, and also against the way the blush on Jaskier’s face spreads down his neck in response.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmurs, quiet and low, and tracks the movement of Jaskier swaying a little closer, those blue eyes drifting down to Geralt’s mouth. 

Geralt swallows, and forces himself not to lean in, yet.

“Witchers aren’t supposed to be comfortable,” he tries to explain, “and the Path isn’t supposed to be easy.” Geralt runs a soothing hand up and then down Jaskier’s arm, when he feels bard ready to puff up indignantly again on his behalf, to tread the well-worn beats of this argument: _That’s not fair, Geralt_ , and _You’re a person, Geralt,_ and _You weren’t made just to suffer; I won’t_ let _you, Geralt._

He could turn away, now, probably, and get dressed. Jaskier would allow this whole conversation to be forgotten. 

(Jaskier allows a lot, in deference to the things Geralt needs, and that’s motivation enough.)

Instead, Geralt holds on to the warm feeling that’s been buzzing in his chest since Jaskier walked in the room. 

“You make my life easier. More comfortable.” Jaskier’s breathing hitches. Geralt can hear the way his heartbeat accelerates in anticipation, and for once it feels easy to say: “You’re important to me, Jaskier.” He breathes that warmth out, into the stale air of this rented room, letting it linger in the midday light amongst the dust and the smell of verbena and laundry soap, only to find that it’s still there inside him afterwards. 

The feeling isn’t finite. He hasn’t used it all up by speaking it aloud.

There’s more, of course: _No one’s ever cared about me the way you do. I don’t know how you do it. I want to learn._ And, fearfully: _Someday you won’t be here, and it’ll be like how it was, except I’ll still remember what this feels like, and possibly I won’t be able to live with the knowledge._

Geralt might’ve considered saying some of those things, but he’s interrupted by Jaskier’s mouth on his, pressing a desperate, atonal grunt against the seam of his lips. It’s the least musical sound he’s ever heard his bard make, and he’s determined to hear it again, as soon as possible. 

Jaskier pulls away quickly, before Geralt can properly kiss him back, his eyes and mouth both rounded in surprise. “Geralt—”

Geralt crashes forward into him, chasing his lips. Jaskier’s going to ask whether Geralt wants this, and kissing him back is the fastest way to confirm, yes, they’re both here. On the same page, Geralt thinks, which is a turn of phrase well-suited to a poet, if not a witcher.

He abruptly realizes he’s wearing nothing aside from his smallclothes when Jaskier’s lute calluses grip against his shoulder blades, followed immediately by a lap-full of bard when Jaskier scoots forward on his knees to straddle Geralt’s thighs on the mattress. Geralt’s own hands are pawing underneath Jaskier’s doublet, scrabbling to untuck his chemise as his mouth drags down the length of Jaskier’s throat.

“Hang on, hang on,” Jaskier pants. Geralt can’t stop the whine when he leans away, just enough to meet his eyes. “Geralt, hang on.”

The seriousness on Jaskier’s face is enough to focus him. “What, what’s wrong—”

Jaskier’s palms are warm on the back of Geralt’s neck, buried in his surely spectacularly-tangled hair. He’s breathing hard, his pupils dilated. His smile is tremulous and full of some intense emotion when he barks a relieved laugh and says, “Nothing’s wrong—gods, you’re gorgeous, it’s fucking _distracting_ —”

Geralt tightens his arms across Jaskier’s back, where his clothes are heavily rumpled, and can’t help matching Jaskier’s grin. His head feels light, and all his senses are focused on the warm body in his lap. “Let me distract you, then.”

Jaskier wriggles a little, gleeful with adrenaline that Geralt can _smell_ , this close to his neck. “In a moment, dear,” he cups Geralt’s face in his hands, letting his arms bracket Geralt’s head and neck, like a set of warm, enticing blinders, and rests their foreheads together. “Let me say this first.”

Geralt hums, low in his chest, and stares into Jaskier’s eyes and doesn’t blink.

“You keep spare lute strings in your saddlebags,” he says in a near-whisper. His voice is suddenly shaky, and Geralt’s stomach swoops as if he’s just dived down a hill. “The good kind, the kind I prefer. And you bought me new boots last spring, when you saw mine were beyond repair, when I hadn’t even complained about it yet. And, fuck, you mended my favorite shirt last week, before I’d even noticed.”

Those are small things, Geralt thinks. The lute strings are light, and Jaskier tends to forget he needs them until he’s run out. The boots were practical. He’d been mending his own pants at the same time. Small things, not worthy of thanks. But then, he supposes, that’s the point.

Geralt can’t help himself from reaching up to touch Jaskier’s face, brushing his thumb against the point of his mouth. 

“You’re important to me, too, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier breathes, and it sounds like the other thing, the thing Geralt isn’t quite ready to say, but knows, now.

Geralt leans in, and tastes the shape of Jaskier’s smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> OOPS I haven't published a fic in seven years but then a pandemic happened and I finally was badgered by my partner into watching this show and then I proceeded to have all the emotions that are possible for one to have about a bard - AND GUESS WHAT this isn't even the bard one! 
> 
> THIS fic started as a spiral about my lethargy during quarantine, as projected onto one Geralt of Rivia. And then he took over and forced me to have like seven different emotional breakthroughs for him in less than three thousand words.
> 
> I'd like to thank my dear friend and beta M, who's spent nearly two decades reading my fanfiction and has maintained her enthusiasm throughout - one of the many reasons she's the best person alive.
> 
> Title is, of course, from "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver.
> 
> You can find both this fic and me on [tumblr](https://dee-lirious.tumblr.com/post/624488526380253184/yours-and-i-will-tell-you-mine-geraltjaskier), where I'm trying fervently to space out my reblogging of Witcher posts and Only Yell Politely In the Tags. You know, restraint.
> 
> (EDIT: I want to reassure everyone that Roach didn't actually get that many apples; she's being fed a normal and healthy diet, because Original Horse Girl Geralt would never stand for it otherwise, I promise!!)


End file.
